


Forged

by LadyLuckDoubt



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mindfuck, Phoenix Wright Kink Meme, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:56:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLuckDoubt/pseuds/LadyLuckDoubt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recently disbarred Phoenix has lost everything. Thankfully, he's got Kristoph Gavin to help him rebuild his life and get back on his feet... right? Fluffy and sweet in the way that poisoned candy is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forged

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on the Kink Meme asked for: _Heartbreak: In which Phoenix has his heart broken by Edgeworth and is comforted by (insert anon's choice of mail: Godot, Polly, Klavier, Kristoph, Ron, Gumshoe) I'd like smex please!_
> 
> So, yes. Comfort, wrapped up in manipulation, lies, passive-aggression and Kristoph Gavin's typical social engineering.

Wake up in a haze of nothing the morning after, it's a bad hangover which continues, one of those ones where you're stumbling, certain that you'd done some stupid things the night before and hoping, in your still half pickled state that you didn't actually do those things.

But you know. At heart, you know you offended people, you made a complete dick of yourself, you went against the grain of everything the whole world, and you yourself, of course, supposed you actually were. Only this time, you did it drunk on desperation rather than wine, a knee-jerk, in-the-moment reaction you wouldn't have done if only the case had been tighter, the client wasn't mindfucking you, and everything was perfectly falling in line with the perfect career.

The trial had been one thing, but then there was the sluggish walk home afterwards, the way he was sitting there, legs crossed, a pot of tea on the coffee table, the hardened look on his face needing no words behind it. 

 _Phoenix, we need to talk_.

In that same sort of way as Mrs. Murphy did in fifth grade when you and Larry broke a window in the gym and realised there was a drain pipe running up nearby, and somehow Larry suspected that the window led into the land of the unseen; the girls' changerooms. A boost up and a break out and some scratched arms later and no one had known once the bell had rung.

But Mrs. Murphy was making that face he's making right now. That face which knows and has seen the worst in someone, the face which is about to utter a seemingly harmless statement:  _We need to talk_.

But he doesn't say that. 

"Wright." 

He sounds weak and tired and close to tears, a man who's tried rationalising and rehearsing what he's about to say. He's still impossible to figure out: one day he's saying he needs to get over his fear of intimacy, his aphephobia, his harsh opinions of most other people, his lack of faith in everyone. And then he'll do something so typically Edgeworth, so set in his ways that it makes you want to scream and remind him of the  _need_  he'd expressed only moments before. 

He wanted closeness, he said he  _thought_  he wanted a relationship, but he wasn't ready to do or say anything public. 

 _"I'm not ready to be a name on a list of prominent gay and lesbian figures in history, Wright,"_  he'd said, tears in the corners of his eyes, and then his stupid addendum:  _"It's not the same for you, you're a defense attorney, you're not surrounded by TV crews and onlookers and people awaiting some information they can tear you apart with."_

 _"But at least half the legal professionals in this state are gay!"_  had been your reminder.  _"For fuck's sake, Miles, no one **cares**."_

Except he had, and there hadn't been a relationship, there'd been some strange thing which hadn't been one but which involved him spending at least three nights a week in the apartment and complaining about the poor TV reception and the cooking, and then maybe another two nights at his apartment where he'd show mercy and decide that you both deserved a  _proper_  (usually expensive and always made by someone else) meal and you always felt that it was weird fucking in a bed which Manfred von Karma had slept in. 

It wasn't a relationship. It was a lot of time spent together and sex and conversation and it was you nestled up beside him and listening to him breath post-coitally and him sometimes randomly holding you--  _he_ always had to initiate physical contact-- and sometimes needing to be in a room alone without explaining why, as though too much human contact was starting to mess with his head.

It wasn't a relationship. It was never that formal, there was never a contract, it was something that resembled a relationship, and you always convinced yourself that you were both better off like this. No promises and agreements meant no one having to break them and no one getting hurt. You were both lawyers, you both knew what the simplest of agreements could entangle people in. Except when you walk in and you're drained and you realise that after a day like this, you want-- no,  _need_ \-- a hug, and he's sitting there, silent and numb and trying not to cry in that way he does where if you push him enough to talk instead of talking, sorrow turns into rage. 

Your eyes can't quite meet his. You feel guilty in that horrorstruck way that you do when you know you fucked up and that way you do when you lost face and you're consumed with shame and an odd sense that perhaps somehow this might have been your fault even though you don't actually think it was. When Dollie had confided in you that her father sometimes  _did things_ , and that if she thought about it enough she'd start to wonder if it was her fault and that it made her a person even though she knew it wasn't and didn't-- it's that kind of awfulness, where the mind consumes itself by rehashing what happened, evaluating and pulling things apart and setting you in a different light.

You can't think about Dollie now, that's just going to make this worse, that's just impacting your sense of failure. You couldn't save her but you saved him.

 _You attract broken people into your life, don't you?_  you're thinking to yourself as you glance down again at the teapot on the table and the two cups next to it; such a sweet and almost childlike gesture. He can't acknowledge that telling you your hairstyle is ridiculous and obsolete is offensive, but he won't start drinking tea without you there.

You love him, you realise in that horrible moment where you also realise that you've lost him-- even though you're not sure  _why_  just yet-- you love him and everything he is: that guardedness, that partially ruined faith in humanity, that curmudgeonly way he shifts around like a man forty years older than him. You love him for the attention to detail, for his snide comments, for the way he sometimes needs affection and will squeeze you until you feel crushed by his strength; you love him for the way he'll ring if he's coming home late and ask you to download  _Steel Samurai_  so he doesn't miss it, and to not watch it in case you inadvertently open that big stupid mouth of yours and spoil him. You love him for those stupid pink pyjamas and the way he thinks he can tell the difference between one variety of tea and another and how he'll hover over your shoulder on a Sunday morning and  _have_  to solve the nine-letter word puzzle before you do and when you get it first, he'll say he was craning his neck over you to look at the all ordinaries index instead. 

He pours the tea.

"Someone called in this afternoon," he says, deliberately and slowly, as though he's rehearsed this.

"They did?" You can feel the way your voice is shaking, you're horrified, and you're curious. Does that sound like guilt?

"He'd have probably been sixteen at the most."

And you're confused: you don't know any sixteen year old kids. Children, up until today, have seldom been a part of your world, Pearl and Maya excluded of course; you haven't delved into juvenile justice anywhere, the idea of a kid turning up here is surreal.

Perhaps you've misinterpreted it. "Are you all right?" Perhaps the kid was trying to break in, hell knows the security on the apartment complex is terrible and having a ground-floor dwelling means break ins are inevitable in this end of the neighbourhood.

"I'd have been much  _better_  if he hadn't stated that he was looking for his boyfriend."

It's too ridiculous to understand.

"And you think that he was talking about  _me_?"

The horror of the trial clings to you like a sweat, but this has been a hideous twist in things which has caught you off-guard when you weren't looking.

"He seemed to know who you were," he continues, blinking with that steady smile that he makes when he's uncomfortable with the subject matter but knows damn well that he's just won an argument."How?" Your voice is rising but he grabs the cup of tea. The demon prosecutor has risen in him again, he's decided you're guilty, he's got the evidence to fuck you over where it hurts, and he's going to. You're wondering what the hell this evidence will be.

"Explain to me this, Wright: a sixteen year old boy arrives at your apartment and says he's looking for his boyfriend, and when I ask if he's talking about the right person, he says starts describing you: blue suit, lawyer, magenta tie, spiked hair--"

"That could be anyone who's watched one of my trials on television!" Does a rise in your volume make you look guiltier to him?

"...An eight-inch cock?" He raises an eyebrow cleverly and smirks. He's reduced all this to a battle that he's won. It's not personal. 

Even though this should be.

How the hell did some random kid know  _that_  anyway? And what the hell is some random kid doing arriving at the apartment and talking about your genitalia, anyway?

It's a stupid question to ask, but you do, anyway. Maybe some identifying features will jog your memory somehow-- "What did he look like?"

  
He's horrorstruck for a moment, his mouth opens slightly and he's shaken, like old wounds haven't healed, merely turned septic, and in that split second of time, something's ruptured.

God. You're an idiot. You fell for something like this earlier that day.

  
Testament to his disgust and horror, he doesn't even touch the tea. He'd made his decision before you'd arrived home, he just wanted confirmation that he was right, that slam-slam-slam-slam-slam-slam of  _guilty_  to seal everything, to give him closure.

"I think I know why this is unacceptable to me, Wright," he says, beautifully cold and composed. "I just wish I'd known about your desires before I'd grown attached to you."

"But--"

And it's that damning, crumbling sense, just like in court, it's Klavier fucking Gavin's smirk and knowledge, that fake German accent, the strutting and the grin. He'd already made his mind up before, too. Jesus fucking Christ. Your eyes hurt, there are tears trying to come forth but they're blocked for some reason, and it aches. 

Why the hell did this happen today? Why did the kid turn up? Who the fuck was he?

Edgeworth stands up, he's said his piece, you're flailing there weakly like a dying goldfish held between someone's fingertips. 

Jesus fucking christ. You want him to listen, to hear you out, you want to refute his arguments with ones of your own, you're Phoenix Wright and you fight for justice-- you might not be a lawyer any more, but you fight for justice, and once again, you're defending yourself.

You know what justice is, though: he shouldn't have to stay here and listen to this, to petty defenses against such a revolting accusation. Not him. Not with what he's been through.

Your mouth hangs open and you're lost for words again. 

"Please don't contact me again, Wright," he says coldly. "And if your interest in teenage boys ever takes you to the defendant's side of the courtroom, you can count on me being there to make sure you're going to hang for it."

And then he walks out.

  
And once again, you're standing in the middle of the hurricane which popped out of nowhere, reeling in the peace and trying to put it all together again. And you can't; you're exhausted and disgusted and whatever was left of your faith in everything has been shattered to dust. You have no faith in the courts, in justice, in being believed... or in yourself anymore. You're drained and tired and you long for simple, comfortable sleep. Everything is too much effort.

The room feels emptier than it should, and you're in tears when you think about the trial and that all you'd been looking forward to coming home to was a hug, and the sofa is still warm and still smells like him, and you're never going to see him again.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The date on the paper says it's May 1st, 2019. Wednesday. You don't know where yesterday went, you woke up in that hazy hungover feeling, spent a few hours pulling together the events of the last 48 hours that you were able to remember, and you slept.

Now it's Wednesday morning, a weekday, and you want to get up, get back on with your life, to go and do what you're supposed to do, go into the office, chase some work; and there's nothing. You have nothing to return to, you're not a lawyer any more. It's like one of the local earthquakes has ripped through your world, through your identity, and all you can do is blearily poke through the rubble.

When the telephone rings, you want it to be him, but you know it won't be. And you're right; you hate being right like this, but your glass isn't half-full, it's empty, there's a crack in the bottom and everything leaked out.

The voice is slightly nasal, well-educated, strong and earnest.

"Mr. Wright? I was calling to see how you were doing in the aftermath."

You know that voice. It was the young blonde genius, the one attorney on the panel who supported you. Ironically, Klavier Gavin's brother, the coolest defense in the west. 

"Why do you care?"

"Because I'm always concerned about justice, Mr. Wright-- may I call you Phoenix? I grew up inspired by you, and was hoping I'd get to meet you some day-- under better circumstances than these, of course."

You nod dumbly; there's the taste of unbrushed teeth and bourbon in your mouth, you still haven't crawled out of the suit you were wearing from the Monday when you found out you weren't going to be a lawyer any more. The badge was removed; sleeping on it was uncomfortable. It was as though you were clinging to that suit and that identity for as long as you could. And now's the sobering wakeup call; it's all over.

"Mr. Wright?"

"Yeah." You answer gruffly; you want to tell him to fuck off and leave you alone:  _here's the deal, kid, justice is an illusion, heroes cock up, and you can be left alone and friendless and terrified that the whole world thinks you're a fraud and a cheat and a pedophile._  But you don't say that. Shame has silenced you. You can't tell people about this; they'll either blame you or chastise you, tell you everything you didn't do and could have done right-- or they'll subconsciously believe that you fucked up on purpose, that you knew what you were doing, that you forged evidence and presented it: maybe you weren't thinking of dragging it out but when pushed into a corner you had to-- maybe you'd done that over the course of your career, maybe you really had been fucking some sixteen year old kid, maybe...

And you can't entertain that idea because maybe it's true and maybe you'll start convincing yourself that because everyone else believes it, it has to be true. History and justice are created by the victors.

"I'd like to meet with you. I'm concerned about you."

"There's no use."

"We could appeal."

"I don't want to."

"I'd like to at least do you the favour of taking you out to lunch. My treat."

* * *

At least you can thank him for forcing you off the sofa and into the shower, into some clean clothes and a remote sense of purpose. It's all gradual baby steps, one thing at a time, he's given you the push to get out there. You can't look back, maybe you'll get your resolve back, whatever that peppy need for justice was before your world fell to pieces, maybe not. At least you'll have something to eat.

You try to force yourself to be happy as you comb your hair back. Other people suffer in the world, that's why you became an attorney. Other people have to deal with horrible things happening to them-- Maya lost both her parents, Franziksa and Miles don't have parents-- thinking of Miles now is raw and painful, forcing you to change the train of thought lest you start crying again.

Trucy. You lost your badge and the love of your life, she lost the last remaining parent she had, the parent tying her to her identity. Where the hell is she now: does state care allow for little girls to grow up and be magicians? It feels shallow and petty to be thinking about a career and a boyfriend you weren't really in a relationship with anyway when a little girl has been handed over into state care. Perhaps you can ask Kristoph Gavin how she's doing, what happened to her-- when you see him.

Perhaps caring and doing something nice for the kid will dull the pain and the loss and the sense that this might have somehow been all your fault.

Tragedy brings your guard down and makes you more honest about how awful things are.

Edgeworth-- Miles, when he was infuriating you, something which he'd call you on and which would infuriate you even more-- was the opposite. In his sadness, he needed to be alone, to do whatever he had to do, to shut down for awhile and process. The colder he was, the more focussed he was: focussed on winning a court case, delving into a mess and pulling up the truth, or focussed on keeping his emotions coiled tighter than clock springs. Depression and anxiety made him concentrated; when he was in a rare state of perfect, relaxed calm, he'd drop the guard, the walls would come down a little, he'd talk about things, offer slivers of his life and leave you astonished. 

You're the opposite; generally easy going but stress and misery makes you come undone. You don't care to focus, you let it all hang out, it's not worth the effort of hiding, and you're cursing yourself, as you head towards the bus stop, that you do that. This was a bad idea; you might wind up telling Gavin anything over lunch, you might wind up jading the poor thing; something  _else_  to add to your CV of fuckups of late. 

Still, you're grateful. A flicker of kindness, one person standing up for you when the rest of the world believes you're guilty...

God. You need to stop thinking like this, you think, as you wipe tears angrily from your face and the bus arrives.

* * *

You want to hate Gavin for his polished style, the breezy nature and the relatively unaffected manner in which he's sitting there and waiting. But that would be selfish; he's a prominent lawyer with his own office and career; he's a busy man and he's taken time out to have lunch with you, to do something decent because he believes in justice.

"How are you coping?" he asks, either oblivious to the forlorn expression and the numb radiating from you, or too polite to mention it.

"Not very well." It's honesty, at least, you're honest. Would lying in this case make your skills as a lawyer look questionable? You blink, and Gavin smiles slightly, concerned rather than smug. "At least you don't have to pick up the bill," he says. You chuckle politely. You don't want food. You want your life back.

"Thankyou," you offer meekly and he smiles again, sadly. "I want to  _help_  you," he says. He looks away slightly and perhaps a tinge of pink appears in his cheeks, something rare and human and uncomposed that maybe you're hoping you see there because you're such a mess right now and he isn't. "I've always admired you, Mr. Wright."

"Phoenix-- please." Mr. Wright was what people called you when you were a lawyer. And you're not a lawyer any more.

He smiles slightly again, and looks over the menu. "I didn't expect things to come to this," he says quietly. "And I almost feel as though it's somehow my fault."

It isn't, and he knows that and you know that, and somehow, that's what it takes to get the flood of tears coming forth. He understands you, so simply and so easily and in such little time. 

The whole disastrous week manages to get mentioned; the Murphy's Law of losing your boyfriend for another false accusation-- and he interrupts briefly with an astonished smile.

"I never knew you were--"

Were what? 

" _Well_." He's clearly embarrassed at having brought it up. "It's still something of a taboo subject in certain circles, isn't it?"

"I probably shouldn't have been so hung up about it," you find yourself saying. "It wasn't like we were in a relationship anyway."

He nods, serene and untouchable and knowing. "It's all right," he says through your tears. "I understand. I recently lost someone myself."

* * *

Less than a fortnight later and you're considering it as you're waiting to meet him outside his office. It's been an intense week and a half, and he's been considerately there for you, he's held umbrellas for you in the rain, he's talked with you and met with you and listened to you and been determined to help realign your karma: he's found out, through his contacts, about Trucy Enigmar. He's trying, he's said, he's trying.

You're attached to him and you don't want to be. You've never been into the office; he's welcomed you in but you still know the letter of the law, badge or no badge, if anyone thinks you're offering sexual favours for legal services, you're both screwed. You're not dragging him down any further, you don't want anything else on your conscience.

But today's going to be different. He's wanted you to drop in, and your defenses are wearing down; there have been too many casual lingering glances which lingered too long, he's become your saviour and hero in the way that maybe Edgeworth had been and you were for him, and Edgeworth isn't here any more, Edgeworth believes you're a monster, and all you can think about is how much you'd like to repay him and feel your skin against his and see him vulnerable and wanting you.

Not that he would. He's younger and successful and you're a has-been he feels sorry for.

His office is small and tidy; a young intern sits at the front desk and jumps when you open the door, pretending not to look at you. Kristoph opens his own office door; blonde wood and frosted glass-- he blends in so beautifully like a wild animal matching its habitat-- and gives the kid in the red suit a curt nod. 

"Where are your manners, Justice?" he asks as the young man's head snaps to attention. "Say hello." There's a teasing ring to his voice, like he could be flirting with the hapless assistant while telling him off-- how old is he, anyway? Somewhere between fourteen and a young-looking seventeen, probably. Funny. Until only recently, you haven't encountered any teenage boys.

"Hello," he says, mouth slack-jawed, and you sense the recognition. 

You decide to try and make him feel a little less uncomfortable. "Phoenix Wright." You extend a hand to him and he shakes it. 

"Hello, Mr. Wright." He's blushing and you see Kristoph give him an exasperated look. 

"This is my assistant, Apollo Justice."

You nod, looking at the kid who is staring at you as though he's seen a ghost, and in a way, he has. 

"Back to work, please." Kristoph turns to the door behind him and you step into his office; it's beautiful as he is, glass and elegant pale wood and a few modern art pieces in a blue similar to his suit and his eyes. The man knows how to coordinate. 

"I was wondering if you'd like to do something later in the evening," he says once the door has quietly shut behind you. You're still taking in the office and its fixtures and the mystery of the door-- it looks so light and yet moves so slowly and steadily that you're convinced it's a lot heavier and probably happens to be soundproofed. 

"If you--"

"I just have business elsewhere this afternoon," he says. "An old friend of mine, a journalist, wishes to catch up with me-- but I understand we were going to meet and was wondering if we could perhaps push our meeting back a bit further in the evening... I would hate to miss out on seeing you, Phoenix."

It's the first time he's said your name and it's the first time he's spoken of a meeting beyond that of a casual catch up for lunch. The air smells of light florals and something which might be vanilla; there's a seductive pull to it, though, a sexiness, something unspoken, a line you're not sure you wish to cross even though you feel safe with him and your body tingles with the electricity of anticipation. 

"That sounds wonderful," you tell him.

The way the two of you smile at one another is suggestive that you're both on the same page and it makes you nervous and excited at the same time. He combs his hair out of his eyes and smiles sweetly at you. 

"I'll stop past your office on the way back from seeing my friend," he says.

And for the rest of the afternoon, you're like a teenager awaiting the night of the prom.

You smile at the assistant who is hard at work as you leave. You're amused at the irony that it was an accusation about a teenage boy which lead you into this relationship. 

Your world might be starting to repair itself.

 

 

It's the first time you've looked forward to something, you realise as you slouch on your sofa and wonder what he's doing. He's pulled you out of this, and miraculously, he seems to be reciprocating the same sort of interest you have in him; you haven't told him everything yet; he knows about the trial of course and he knows snippets about Edgeworth, but not the accusation. 

You're terrified that if you tell him, he's going to believe Edgeworth, and you're terrified of saying nothing because that would be deceptive; it's been a crazy few days and everything's moved so quickly; speed and momentum have at least distracted you from depression and self-destruction getting the better of you, haven't they, and of course those perfect blue eyes and that cultured and serene voice.

 _Coolest defense in the west,_  you remind yourself.  _And he's defending **me**_.

You're worried he won't show up. You're worried he'll be put off by the office you can't bear to change which is probably going to turn into your home because you can't afford the rent and there's no way in hell you're telling Kristoph about that: you don't want him to pick up the bill for you; you have pride, if not anything else. Pride and a date tonight, and you don't want to ruin either of them.

  
When he arrives, he smells like sea breeze and spices and beetroot, and he tells you that he's quite fond of borscht and he's just been down to the Borscht Bowl Club with his journalist friend and had some. You smile pleasantly; you're not too sure what borscht is, but you're sure that if it tastes like you imagine him to, it will be wonderful.

To your credit, he says nothing of the mess that your office is, but says he's got some good news he'd like to share with you when you get back to his place. You're ambiguous about his good news; could this have been the relationship you were wanting all along, all those months ago but could never quite grasp? It feels too soon, you're dancing on,  _fucking on_  Edgeworth's grave.

Your face hardens when you think of Edgeworth's last words to you, and you almost bitterly want to hope that he's caught up in some sort of mess instead. Then it turns to a numb, nothing feeling. If it weren't for Edgeworth storming out, you wouldn't be feeling like this: saved and safe and exalted and cared for in a way that Edgeworth could never manage normally: Edgeworth was damaged and frustrating-- all too often, you felt as though you were walking eggshells around him, as though nothing was ever good enough for him or going to comfort him. He couldn't help it, it was just him.

Perhaps loving someone wasn't reason enough for a relationship. And perhaps this-- hurried and crazy as it seemed-- is far more suitable.

Kristoph smiles again, and you can see the nervousness ripple under the dusty blue suit. You're feeling like some kind of a pervert, wondering if he's paler under the clothing as Edgeworth was (on that chance when you accidentally saw him naked) and wanting to feel skin and structure, another body-- beneath your fingertips again.

He smiles coyly, and blinks at you. "Stop undressing me with your eyes, Phoenix," he says. "It makes you look desperate."

You don't deny what you were doing and you don't shy away from his opening line. You give him a sadistic moment to contemplate how that comment might be taken and a killer poker face he won't be able to read, and you then smile slightly. "Perhaps I am."

"Perhaps you'll have to learn the art of patience," he says coyly, a long finger trailling down the front of your suit, and that look coming into his eyes-- he's flirting with you, you're flirting with him, and god you want him-- and there's that niggling concern in the back of your head that he doesn't yet know why Edgeworth walked out and that if he finds out afterwards, it would be betrayal. And he's been so damned good to you.

"I don't defile office furniture," he tells you coyly. "I find it tasteless." There's a smirk in his voice then as he continues. "And besides, it doesn't look like you have any air freshener in here, does it, Wright? I wouldn't want to upset your landlord." 

"I doubt the owner would mind," you say weakly. "I sort of inherited it when my mentor was murdered." You're not going into details, about how Maya inherited it though allowed you to keep it running assuming, of course, that you would be a lawyer until retirement. Guiltily, you think of Maya, someone else who doesn't know, and your spirit dampens. 

"But I would." It's as though he missed the remainder of that sentence, and he ushers you out. "I'd prefer to-- if you'll excuse the horribly unintended pun-- take you elsewhere." There's a smirk in his voice. He reminds you of when you were kids and your brother and you would snoop around mom and dad's bedroom in the weeks before Christmas and you'd earnestly tell them that you really wanted a certain video game and you knew that it had already been purchased and was sitting up in the closet near those out of season and size-too-small clothes mom hadn't been wearing lately.

He knows, and you know, and that's exciting. 

You follow him out to the car faster than you've ever left the office before.

By the time you've reached his apartment, the tension has mounted into something else entirely. He's grown bolder since the flirting; he's silent on the road, looking ahead, in that frustrating way people can be, teasing without really meaning to, or without trying to look like it's deliberate, anyway.

There's something about him you still can't quite figure out. Why is he so perfect, so intelligent and kind and concerned with your justice being served-- why did he back you up without even knowing you, why did he show up at the right place and the right time...?

 _Could he be an angel?_  It's a stupidly romantic idea and one he'd surely laugh at if you said it aloud. He's driving quickly, just at the speed limit, threatening to go over, and you're looking out the window of his car, hoping you can recognise where you're headed. He seems to know so much about you and yet you seem to know so little about him.

Maybe spending the night at his place will change that. You stupidly wonder about his little details; does he wear satin pyjamas to bed or does he sleep naked? Does he talk in his sleep and move around? What happens to that straw-blonde hair while he sleeps? How does he have his breakfast? Is his morning routine a lazy one with plenty of sleepin time, or does he rush and panic and try to get a morning job in before hitting the showers and grabbing a bite to eat?

  
His apartment is on the top floor; if it weren't as dark as it is right now, he tells you, you could see as far as the eye can wander and the mind can fathom. He's twitching nervously in the elevator and the two of you step out when the doors open, him leading the way. 

You can feel your heart in your throat and you're excited and terrified all at once. 

  
He unlocks the door and you peer inside; it's dark and the apartment is, still, even when he switches the lights on and you can see him and his furniture choices well. All the wood is unnerving, there are dozens of huge book cases everywhere, what must be thousands of books lining them, and you'd steal a look at the titles-- does he like boys' spy novels or war biographies or nineteen fifties abnormal psychology texts or futuristic dystopian novels or quirky graphic novels about mercurial gods from mythologies of times past?

But he's standing next to you and you can feel his breathing.

"Welcome to my home," he says with a sunny smile. 

"Thankyou." 

Suddenly you're assaulted with all these things coming together; he's perfect, this is perfect, why have you been lucky enough to experience this? This is karmic payback for losing the badge and Edgeworth, isn't it?-- you gulp, realising that you're only a couple of stupid moments away from losing him, too.

"I need to tell you something," you say, your voice trembling and tears which never made it out somehow catching in the back of your throat, causing your whole face to shake and your vision to blur. "You're probably going to..." Probably going to what? Your throat is all choked up with sobs and tears and snot and everything, including that lush dark grey carpet, is a blur because of it all.

You hate yourself for being so pathetic. This is just like last time:  _now_ 's when you realise you love him-- just as you're about to lose him.

"What will I do, Phoenix?" His voice softens but there's still a firmness to it.

"Edgeworth-- my-- the-- person I was involved with-- left because he thinks I'm a pedophile."

And that's when you're waiting for something to drop, for him to flinch away or laugh nervously or to be visibly bothered by what you've just said.

"Why would he think that?"

"He told me some teenage boy had slept with me," you're telling him in a garbled mess. "And what was worse about it was that the kid could...  _recognise_  me."

"Are you?" He's still standing close to you, his voice still subtle and gentle.

"No." Another sob. You're trying to compose yourself. "I don't-- think-- so."

He smiles then, and shifts closer, using his index finger to tilt your chin upwards. It's like he's saved you from drowning, but your vision is still blurred from water. 

"Perhaps this  _Edgeworth_  was wanting a convenient and revolting excuse to leave you-- one you would either be too ashamed to chase up for fear of somehow validating the accusation, or one which he felt was justifiable and didn't warrant explanation on your behalf." He blinks, sad and kind. "Would you really want an explanation if you found out he was sexually abusing children?"

He makes a very good point, and through the blur and the sting of tears you feel his hand reach up and cup your face. It's smooth and cool, an almost feminine touch, and with his thumb, he wipes another tear from the corner of your eye. 

"I didn't bring you back here to take advantage of you, Phoenix," he says gently. "And I don't know what caused this Edgeworth to behave in such a callous fashion." He can't help but sigh and then a smile creeps into his face. Only a slight one, not overwriting the seriousness in his voice. "Although part of me thinks that his loss is most definitely my potential gain."

You don't know why you're kissing him hungrily; perhaps it's thanks which cannot be easily verbalised, perhaps it's distraction from the still painful wounds and the ugliness and the hideous and shameful accusations. 

His mouth is moist and strong; he sucks in hungrily, tilting your head back and those slender fingers make their way through your hair.

It's felt like an eternity since you've kissed and been kissed like this. He moans and there's a pinch of metal against your cheek; he flushes and pulls back, his lips still wantonly moist with saliva, yours and his, and it's that thought and the slightly off-kilter look on his face which makes you want him more than you've wanted anything else before. He wipes across his lips with one hand and removes his glasses with the other. 

"If we are to continue this-- I'd prefer a shower first." 

It's so typically him, so  _tidy_  and pure and  _good_ \-- and so typical of Edgeworth in a way-- that you can only just smile. But something makes you pull back; you remember Edgeworth tactlessly commenting that you were "surprisingly solid" and that you could probably stand to tone up a bit on one occasion, and the idea of showering with a naked and probably exquisite and highly critical-- whether or not he is polite enough to not verbalise it-- Kristoph Gavin-- is unnerving enough to kill the moment. 

You kiss him again for good measure, but he pulls back. 

"Please, Phoenix," he says sharply. "We aren't far away from the bathroom."

 

 

Self-conscious, you slip on the bathrobe following the shower. His bathroom is magnificent which was to be expected; black marble with gilded fixtures, thick Egyptian cotton towels folded neatly over the towel rail, expensive European body wash and a varieties of shampoo and conditioner you've never seen on supermarket shelves before. Warm in-your-face light bathes the entire area and a large, frustratingly unfoggable mirror confronts you with yourself when you step out; you stand under the glow and the heat of the light, closing your eyes and tilting your head backwards, suddenly bashful in case he walks in. 

With your eyes closed and the luxury and the warmth-- and the fact that you feel  _incredible_  after the shower, you could be a  _god_. But the cool air and uncertainty following from whatever happens after this occurs to you, and you pull on the bathrobe and step out the door; the sliding one you thought you entered through.

It wasn't the same door. This one leads to his bedroom, and he's standing by a freshly made four poster bed, smiling.

"Perhaps the shower was all you needed, Mr. Wright," he says quizzically, smiling that sunny smile and you want to kiss him then and there, unconcerned about his need for a shower. You pull the bathrobe around you awkwardly as you become aware of the sexiness and innuendo of the situation: there's something ridiculously compelling about being in this state; blissful and sated and barely clothed while he stands there examining you carefully while trying to look casual about it-- and failing-- he'd be terrible at poker, you think randomly-- and fully clothed. 

"Perhaps not." You reach for him and he flinches away, quick as a cat and aggressively irritated. He pushes you onto the bed and you don't resist; this is foreplay and your pulse is racing, your self-consciousness is fading; he's so deliberate and perfect and just failing so impossibly at keeping himself under control yet still trying and...

You stretch, languid and inviting, your arms above your head as he moves along the bed on his knees, his glasses, mysteriously returned since you were in the front area of the apartment, fogging slightly with his obvious arousal. With a quick tug, he pulls the cord from the bathrobe and snaps it dangerously, grabbing one wrist and securing it to the iron on the bed head, whipping it around and catching the other. 

You inhale sharply. Edgeworth never wanted to try anything like this. He initially thought it was foolish, and then later said that either of their reputations would suffer if anyone found out, and then later amended his reasoning to the notion that it was dangerous, and when that failed, that much of the sexual play in these sorts of situations was actually illegal. But you'd wondered about it, and the way Kristoph is looking, smiling like he knows what he's doing is making your blood rush and your imagination tick overtime. Once again, you entertain the idea that he could, in fact, be an angel.

"Wait here," he says, as though some other alternative is available to you, and he at least doesn't notice the embarrassingly stiff hardon beneath the fold of cotton between your legs. You give him a dark look and wriggle under the fabric. "Okay," is all you can manage, and he tenderly strokes your face, those fingers running through damp, dark hair.

And you wait, equal parts aroused and frustrated, anticipating what might happen when the hiss of the shower spray is shut off and the fan absorbing the moisture dies down. 

He's quick. He wants this as much as you do, and he appears draped only in one of those thick absorbent towels from the rack, noting the way your face lights up as he slips into the room. 

"You aren't uncomfortable, I hope?" he asks.

Your arms are starting to hurt and the pressure in your cock is driving you crazy, but it's nothing he probably won't take care of.

"No." It's a lie, but not an important one. You look at him and what you can see of his body; his skin is shaded pink with the heat from the shower; a few awkward freckles dot his shoulders and upper arms.

 

If he has chest hair, he shaves or waxes it or something, making you feel mildly self-conscious about your own. He secures the towel around himself, and crawls along the bed on his knees as he did before, the smell of his expensive shampoo; chamomile and something dark and smoky which you can't recognise-- and with an almost victorious, childish, "Nyar, take  _that_ , Edgeworth," you realise the only reason you recognise the chamomile is because Edgeworth liked it as a  _tea_. Before  _bed_.

Kristoph Gavin has corrupted chamomile, you think to yourself wryly as he shifts towards you. Not that you mind at all.

He's kneeling beside you, his face moving towards yours, wet hair somehow making you feel damp and aroused. Despite the hygiene, there's something carnal and dangerous about this; he looks you in the eye and his own eyes, blue like yours but paler and a different shape entirely-- look smaller without the glasses. 

"I didn't know you'd enjoy this so much," he says, a taunt in his voice. "Anyone would think that this Edgeworth was somewhat lacking in grey matter." A finger trails down your face and chin, down the sensitive skin of your neck and over your bulging adam's apple and down onto your chest. He pushes the fabric of the bathrobe aside, ignoring the way it catches lower down and makes you whimper slightly with the pressure and the movement; he's exploring your chest at the moment. Fingertips dance daintily over skin and play with a few scant chest hairs before he finds a nipple, already pert and stiff, eagerly awaiting his touch.

"Because," he says idly, fingertips squeezing slightly and his mouth opening to kiss just under your throat-- "If you were mine"-- a kiss, planted almost awkwardly against thin skin-- "I wouldn't be letting you go very easily at all, Wright."

His hand pulls aside the cotton of the bath robe, and you shift again, helpless and stunned and waiting. His mouth opens yet again, and there's another kiss planted against your jaw, and you want to close your eyes and lose yourself but you want to see what he's doing and the way he looks whole he's talking to you. 

You murmur something incoherent and he kisses you again.

"You want me, don't you?"

It's the look on his face which does it; equal parts dangerously aroused and sweetly loving, a demon in a kindergarten teacher's clothing; it's that smell of his hair, the beads of moisture on damp skin, it's the way he's seducing you into wanting him and realising you're completely helpless and that you want him to want you and be overcome with lust.

Maybe he doesn't realise it, but it's like the two of you are entangled in some gloriously fucked up mating dance; delay is part of the winning hand. You're not sure if you want him to fuck you or if you want to fuck him; a part of you knows you're not going to get either for a while at least; his mouth works its way down your throat, nipping at you playfully. One slender hand is in your hair again, scrunching and balling, perfectly smooth fingernails running over your scalp making you feel alive in a way you haven't before. His other hand steadies him, grabbing your thigh, tucking itself beneath the bath robe, clenching the skin, and you're too distracted by the way his mouth is working its way down your throat and over your chest, as though he's tasting you, exploring every inch of you, trying to map out everything about you with his tongue and lips-- to be at all nervous about the fact that there's the almost juvenile fluff which seems to grow on your upper thighs and those muscles could be a lot more taut and perfect than they are. 

He has stamina, but he needs to shift, and when he does, the edge of his hand brushes against your cock; with his eyes meeting yours once again and a knowing, intense  _do you trust me?_  gaze, those smooth and perfect fingers shift to grasp you.

He continues kissing and licking down your chest, and you buck up uncomfortably; his touch is featherlight frustrating, and his eyes are on your skin. You're trying to watch him; he's not quite as pale as you are, there's a sort of golden milky warmth to him, not solarium baked like his brother but natural, as though his skin merely happened to absorb sunlight and project its glow.

He doesn't look at you as he strokes you, innocently and slowly, just like he's exploring another part of your body.

"Godammit." It's rare for you to swear, but he's driving you crazy, and frustratingly, looking perfectly blase about it. Blase and yet respectful, like this isn't just having sex, this isn't some half-hearted sympathy fuck, this is a rite of passage or some sort of sacred ceremony. 

He gazes up at you and you think, with shallow breathing and some frustration, that if your hands weren't secured above your head like this, you'd be mapping out his body, celebrating the curves and warmth of his skin with your fingertips.

"Perhaps we can reverse the positions next time," he says with a momentary pause and a wry laugh as though he'd capable of reading your mind, and the way he strokes again, offering the perfect amount of pressure, and then the strange bitter aftershock of fingernails grating down your shaft, you suspect he can. He doesn't need a poker face when he can read minds.

You like the idea of a next time; you like the way there's promise here, the suggestion of him cranking up the notch a little, perhaps something a little more deliberate and organised than a on-the-spur choice of a bathrobe being used as a prop. 

You're five foot nine of gasping, quivering want. "Please," you can hear yourself murmur. It's pathetic the way you're mumbling like this, your voice half-buried under desire. "Just let me touch you." God, you just want to touch him; you're right, you realise as his towel slips slightly, allowing you to see broad shoulders and a toned but not muscular, firm but not buff, comfortable but not fat torso in front of you, the towel draping over him making him look like an ancient statue. 

You catch a glimpse of a nipple; he's just as aroused as you are by the looks of things, but too smooth and controlled to let on. You're utterly captivated.

He says nothing but smirks before leaning in to kiss you again, and you wonder then, if he could leave you here, distracting and taunting and torturing you like this, drawing out what might become an orgasm and letting it peak and fade as he distractedly concentrates on something else.

 

 

You didn't expect him to be this tender and receptive and gentle. 

When he's kissing you again, you're not sure what you expected any more; God, it wasn't that you  _hadn't_  thought about it, but your fantasies had contained a Kristoph who was much more held-back and almost childishly stunted in terms of sophistication. Perhaps you wanted to think of him as that because to imagine him as Kristoph Gavin, two years younger, brilliant, kind and able to organise his time so perfectly and so benevolently as to take in a fallen star like yourself; all that  _and_  a perfect lover-- that would be depressing. Depressing because you're told no one is perfect and then he manages to be and you're not.

Maybe you should just make the most of it and enjoy him. He certainly doesn't seem to be complaining, even though you expected him to be rough and indifferent and somewhat hopeless, blunt and awkward and anything but graceful and considerate like this. You expected sex with him to be painful and quick, the ultimate distraction, in a way you wanted it like that.

Not that you're complaining about what you're receiving, you think with a smile as he shifts again, that hand which was rubbing your cock now cupping your cheek and sliding underneath your jawbone, like he's mapping out your face.

If only you could return the favour. 

"Can I..?" you start asking again, and you wince and jolt backwards; there's the unexpected grating sting of broken skin, like a shaving cut only rougher; one of those usually perfect fingernails has scraped the side of your face.

It's nothing, you tell yourself, it was the shock of the sting which startled you, it didn't really hurt. And anyway, his lips are over the area where he clipped you, pressing in to chastely and sweetly kiss you sorry. It would be innocent but for his tongue sliding over the pain and the way you find yourself shuddering involuntarily, imagining that tongue elsewhere.

All is, most certainly, forgiven.

 

He's astride you now, and the motion of him rocking against you, of his skin brushing against yours tempting and soft and warm and damp-- it's enough to take your mind off the sting on your face. He murmurs quietly, a low hum-- there's a little smile on his face and his lips press into your collarbone again, gentle and apologetic. It's mesmerising. In the back of your mind is Edgeworth, awkward and uncertain even in the blackness; now, though, you can see him, the way his face is tightened in concentration and the way he's steadying himself, one hand against your chest as he-- 

Somehow, you didn't expect to be the one penetrating him, and you're not sure why. He smiles as your face changes, it must be changing, he's caught you off guard as he uses his free hand to guide you into him and-- oh god-- he's so smooth and warm and perfect and you're breathing through your nose now, your top teeth pressed into the bottom of your lip, your eyes clenched shut and your mind flooded. You wonder who else has slept with him, who he's allowed himself to do this with, because, god, he's perfect, and the way he's shifting again, rocking against you and pulling himself upwards--  _god_ \-- you glance down and he's frustratingly covered with the towel; it's somehow tasteful and dignified even still, yet irritating; even with your arms behind you like this-- and they're starting to ache now-- you want to offer him something; you long to touch him, to stroke him at least, he deserves a thankyou of sorts even though he seems to be deriving as much pleasure from this as you are.

If that's at all possible.

He rocks against you, pulling back and then thrusting back against you, driving you into him. You can hear his breath, fast and wheezy now, you can see his eyes, closed in concentration. Sections of his hair lash about wildly, flicking you with little droplets of water, running down your chest and hitting your face. 

You can't remember anything like this happening in your life ever before. You suck your breath in through your nose as he bucks against you again; you want to hold him close, you want to let him come, you want to offer appreciation, you want to kiss him-- irritatingly, you can't, though. He's in control right now, and it's all about  _you_. What the hell did you do to deserve this?

The sting in your face becomes apparent again as he kisses you there, he's no longer tentative and quiet, he's gasping as you are, he's clinging to you for dear life and he pulls you close, catching your lips and kissing you aggressively now.

In the moment when you come, your mind, the treacherous bastard of a thing, flashes to a triumphant Edgeworth. The positions were sometimes similar to this, and you remember how you liked to watch his face when he came, looking for some sort of shaken emotion from him. Kristoph, however, is different; he gasps as though shocked, and stays where he is, pushing against you yet again, daring your erection to subside even though it starts to. He slips off you and leans against your chest, thoroughly pleased with himself, fingers tiptoeing up your chest. He seems to like your body in a way that Edgeworth never did, and you feel equal parts pleased and treacherous for realising that. 

He's still jagged in his breathing, and he reaches up, lazily untying one hand and then the other, smirking as you flop against the pillows, sated and delirious.

"How are you feeling now, Wright?" he asks in a drunken, blissful state; gone is the clipped and formal tone of voice. "I do hope that didn't cause too much strain on anything."

You shake your head slowly, still smiling at him. "No," you tell him. "I haven't felt better." And in that moment it's true; you've lost your job and your badge and your identity and your boyfriend, and yet somehow you've been saved and pampered and treated like this. He feels so smooth and warm against you that you make a mental note to ask what he  _does_  to his skin at a more appropriate time. 

His hand drops down to your flaccid cock and he holds it softly. "Neither have I," he says coyly, smiling again. "I'm glad this was satisfactory for you."

You chuckle, and wrap an arm around him, holding him tighter towards you, trying to work out what he smells like. There's the shampoo, but nothing else, and it frustrates you; you always liked that smell, indistinguishable but definitely  _his_  of Edgeworth, and you want to work out what Kristoph's is. For such an intimate moment, you still don't feel like you know him much better than you did before.

He reaches across and switches the light next to the bed off; he's a reverse Edgeworth;  _he_  used to do that; always before sex, though, and the light would come back on afterwards as you were talking with him, and you could see the languid and pleased smile gracing his face and you could watch his lips move as he talked about nothing. Flashes of light, unintended and sure to have bothered Edgeworth during sex-- it was just a matter of keeping him distracted-- were all you had prior to this. 

Kristoph runs a finger across your face again, and sighs. "I think I might have hurt you, Wright," he says apologetically. "I should probably switch the light back on and allow you to see to it."

He does, and you lie there, smiling at him, trying to read his face in the close-to-black. He's looking down at his index finger, and you see a streak of red and the way he's staring at it, fixated and troubled. 

"I could just fall asleep like this." It's a stupidly sentimental comment for you to make, but what the hell? You have an idea about how he feels about you, he probably won't mind. You can spoon up against him later in the evening and he can fuck you next time...

"I'd prefer you didn't," he says softly, voice full of regret. "It seems too early in our relationship for overnight visits." He smiles again, though, his face lighting up with almost boyish mischief. "Though I certainly doubt it will take long for me to feel comfortable with the idea of sharing a night's sleep with you." Fingers trace down your chest again, toying with a few hairs, twirling them together, tugging them sharply. "Clean yourself up and I'll drive you back home," he says. "I've got some good news for you."

 

 

You're thinking about him in the shower, delirious and high on still not quite sated hormonal urges. You casually stroke your dick, thinking about the way he did, wondering if he'll join you in the shower, surprise you a little, frustrated and tired and feeling a strange warm glow within yourself; contentment, something you haven't been used to for a long time. You wonder if you'll fall asleep in his car, caressed by leather seating and the soothing lull of his voice.

You're wondering what the good news is.

You study yourself in the mirror, noting the thin, paper cut-like scratch running a few centimetres down your jawline-- even his accidental slips manage to be perfect, you think with a happy little smile as you're drying yourself off. You can't wait until next time, you're thinking, and for this good news, whatever it is.

You float, in a cloud of thick cotton towelling and the scent of his bodywash, and sheer, perfect  _bliss_ , back into the bedroom.

He's smiling, holding an armful of bedclothes. The mattress and pillows look awkwardly naked.

"I like to keep things tidy," he says coyly. And you're almost disappointed; the romantic in you could convince yourself that you never hastily changed the sheets after making love with Edgeworth because you  _liked_ sleeping next to his scent and the reminder of what you'd just done.

Kristoph Gavin isn't a romantic, you remind yourself. He's an angel. Perfection doesn't need to worry about clinging to things and cheap sentimentality. 

He dumps the bedclothes unceremoniously in a wicker basket at the end of the bed. "Perhaps I should drive you home now," he says. "You certainly look as though you're ready for sleep."

You smile, and wait for him to continue. 

"--And I know once I've remade the bed and showered myself, I'll be looking forward to sleep."

"Maybe you don't need to drive me anywhere, after all." Oh, god. You're flirting. You haven't flirted, not properly and with that sort of innuendo-- for  _years_. Edgeworth never warmed to it, and Dollie was the one leading the way; you always felt awkward and uncomfortable and almost desperate trying to sound seductive. But now you're too confident-- or too stupidly in love-- to care.

He smiles sweetly and flicks the hair out of his eyes, looking at you as though he's going to chastise you. "Now, now," he says demurely, "There will be time for that later, Phoenix." His voice conceals a chuckle. "I won't reveal my good news until you're in the car, in that case."

You want to whine, but you're too tired. You follow him out of the apartment, your skin still tingling and your head giddy and longing. This wasn't love at first sight, you think with a smile, but it came close.

  
In the car, he's smiling sweetly again, and for some reason you're remembering that time you convinced Edgeworth to let you suck him off after he'd driven to a secluded, darkened place. Okay-- it was the lockup garage in his apartment, it was late enough so that no prying neighbours would see anything and you could barely see anything yourself, but the memory of leather and the confines of the automobile, and the thrum of the engine dying, coursing through your body like a new rhythm-- the memory returns and you're growing hard at the thought of it.

"You're hopeless, aren't you?" he says affectionately as you clip on your seatbelt and his hand runs over your crotch, smooth and fleeting. "I never thought I'd get to experience it myself."

You're unsure what he means, but he elaborates as the engine starts and you're hoping he might just touch you again mid-drive.

"It's unlikely you'll remember, but I had my eye on you long before we met, Wright."

You're surprised. But perhaps there is something of the romantic in him for him to remember like that. 

"I remember noticing you, and certain  _attributes_  of yours in court well before the unfortunate situation which brought us together."

You like the way he says that--  _brought us together_. As though fate had ordained it.

You're smiling nervously, blushing.

 

"The urinals in the bathroom in court," he says coyly. "I think you were working on the famous Engarde case; I was but an intern working for another firm with business elsewhere in court." His voice has softened. "I was just too shy to speak to you, and courthouse rumours suggested that a prosecutor already had designs on you."

It's bittersweet, how he says that, and you sigh quietly as the car turns down onto the main road.

"I suppose things have worked out in our favour at last," you tell him. You can't regret time; back then, you would have ignored him anyway in favour of terminally unreachable Edgeworth, wouldn't you?

There's a short silence and he realises he's approaching your own residence. Soon to be  _ex_  residence, you're thinking, hoping the landlord isn't on the prowl this late in the evening. Eviction is impending.

"I promised I'd give you your good news, too." He holds it out to you like he's offering sweets to a child. "I had a talk to Family Services earlier this afternoon."

Your heart stops. 

"The little girl-- Trucy Enigmar-- the one you inquired about?" He's smiling slightly. "I made the necessary calls and besides your little problem with forged evidence, no one can find any history of legal wrongdoings... I also gave you an excellent reference and if you still wish to have the girl live with you until her permanent family can be traced--"

He tried. He succeeded.

"Thankyou." Your voice is a whisper, and you lean over to kiss him at the red traffic light. Somehow, things are falling into place; you can turn this about, make a terrible situation a better one. With Kristoph at your side, you're already starting to.

"I suppose I will need to get used to being around children again," he tells you, a warmth coming into his voice. "It has been a while, but I can empathise-- I remember the legal paperwork and consultation involved with keeping Klavier away from the organisations when I was younger."

He's like you, you think as you kiss him again, he's seen the worst of a situation and decided to allow that to give him the empathy to make things better for someone else. 

You don't know what to say, but when the light turns green and he's driving again, that sharp concentration on the road in front of him and not you, all you can do is look out the window into the night sky and smile. 

Everything, you realise, is going to be all right.


End file.
